


The Wizard's Cape(r)

by all_these_ghosts



Category: My Little Pony (Cartoon 1984-1989)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_these_ghosts/pseuds/all_these_ghosts
Summary: It's time for the Harvest Festival, and only the Moochick can fix Wind Whistler's costume. Of course, the Moochick has a tendency to create more problems than he solves...
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Wizard's Cape(r)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rosencrantz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosencrantz/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! Thanks for giving me the chance to revisit this lovely cartoon :)

“Wind Whistler?”

Deep in concentration — and covered in fabric — Wind Whistler jumped at the sound of her name. She turned to see Masquerade standing in the nursery doorway, her head tilted at a quizzical angle.

“What are you doing in here? The babies are all outside.”

Which was exactly why Wind Whistler was _in_ side. She didn’t want to do this with an audience. “It’s the Harvest Festival,” she explained. “I would like to participate in the costume contest. I expected it to be an edifying challenge, but I’m afraid costuming isn’t my strong suit.”

Masquerade shook out her mane. “I bet that’s not true. What’ve you come up with so far?”

Pawing through the pile of discarded fabric, Wind Whistler picked out a fluffy pink skirt and a bright red wig. She held them up for her friend to inspect.

“Hmm,” Masquerade said. “Well, what are you supposed to be?”

This was precisely the response she’d anticipated. “A clown.” She looked back at the items she was holding. “Perhaps a Clown Princess?”

The yellow pony stifled a laugh. “Maybe you do need some help. Good thing I’m an expert when it comes to costumes. Let me look.” Masquerade opened the costume chest with her hoof and began shuffling through the contents. “Hmm.” She stuck her whole head in, and came up with a pirate hat perched askew across her ears. “Pirate?”

Wind Whistler shook her head.

Masquerade went back in, emerging this time in a pair of horns.

Wind Whistler shuddered. “No, thank you.”

“Bad memories,” Masquerade agreed.

Masquerade tried on, and Wind Whistler rejected, a handful of other costumes — dragon, pumpkin, squirrel. None of them felt quite right to Wind Whistler, though she could see her friend was getting frustrated.

“Why’re we doing a costume contest anyway?” Masquerade asked, wrinkling her nose.

“I thought you would be excited.”

“I like costumes! But we’ve never done one for the Harvest Festival before.” Masquerade knelt down and flicked another costume in Wind Whistler’s direction — a wizard’s hat and cape in deep purple velvet, trimmed with gold.

Wind Whistler tried them on and studied herself in the mirror. The hat fit nicely, but the cape was a bit too long. Perhaps Megan could help her adjust it. “It’s what Megan does in her world,” she explained. “Their Harvest Festival is much the same as ours, with pies and sweets, but in addition, they wear costumes and demand candy from their neighbors.”

Masquerade’s eyes twinkled. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought it would be an enjoyable surprise for them.” Wind Whistler swapped the hat out for a mop of blue fur with fabric eyes sewn into it — part of a Bushwoolie costume, she assumed. “Of course, I failed to take into account that it would require _me_ to find a costume.” 

Fizzy bounded in just then, skidding to a stop in front of the pile of rejected costume pieces. “Oh _boy_ ,” she cried. “Are we making costumes? I want to help!” She looked Wind Whistler up and down. “A Bushwoolie wizard! But your cape’s too long.”

Wind Whistler hurriedly swapped the Bushwoolie hat for the wizard’s hat. “Yes, I was intending to ask Megan for assistance with the hem—”

“I’m sure the Moochick could help!” Fizzy exclaimed.

Wind Whistler and Masquerade exchanged a glance. They knew what usually happened when the Moochick “helped.”

“Surely it’s not necessary to call the Moochick for such a minor request,” Wind Whistler said. “You know he prefers not to leave the Mushromp.”

Fizzy giggled. “It’s no problem! He’s already here for the festival!”

That was uncharacteristic of him. Perhaps he’d heard about the candy. Wind Whistler said, “I don’t think that’s a good—”

But it was too late. Fizzy was already out the door and galloping away, calling, “I’ll get him!” A moment later she returned with the Moochick, practically bouncing with excitement.

Wind Whistler’s eyes went wide. “Oh, Mr. Moochick, thank you, but I’m sure I don’t need—”

“Nonsense!” the Moochick cried. On his shoulder Habit was frantically waving his arms, and Wind Whistler felt her heart sink. “I have just the spell.” Without any further warning, the Moochick waved his wand. A _pop_ and a light twinkling sound followed, and then, after just another second, his voice: “Oh no.”

Wind Whistler turned to look at her friends, but she couldn’t see them. Had the Moochick made them disappear? Had he sent them somewhere? Was the Harvest Festival about to become an epic journey to find her missing compatriots?

And then she looked up.

Masquerade, Fizzy, and the Moochick loomed enormous over her, giant-sized, and it took Wind Whistler a long moment to realize that _they_ hadn’t grown bigger — she’d grown smaller. A _great deal_ smaller.

From above, Masquerade’s voice boomed: “What did you _do_?” Fizzy’s hoof ground nervously against the floor.

“I can fix it!” the Moochick said. Habit shook his head sadly.

“Please do,” Wind Whistler said, and the other ponies looked down at her.

Fizzy knelt low, so they were nearly eye to eye. “Well, he _did_ make your cape smaller,” she said, a little defensively. 

“He also made Wind Whistler smaller,” Masquerade observed.

Fizzy’s eyes brightened. “She’s kind of cute like this!”

“I’m standing right here.”

“You know how to turn her back, right?” Masquerade asked the Moochick.

“Of course!” he said, and then quietly, as though trying to convince himself, “of course…”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Wind Whistler said.

“What was that?” Masquerade asked. “It’s hard to hear you.”

Wind Whistler sighed. She took a deep breath and said, as loud as she could, “ _That’s not very reassuring_ . I would _strongly_ prefer not to be trapped in this condition.”

“Oh, you won’t be trapped!” Fizzy assured her. “I’m sure the Moochick can make you big again!”

The Moochick waved his wand again, and Wind Whistler found herself suddenly in the dark. Was she blind? Had the Moochick inadvertently turned off the sun? Or transported them to an underground cavern?

Light crept back into Wind Whistler’s vision a moment later, when Masquerade tipped the now-giant wizard’s hat over and off of tiny Wind Whistler. The hat, Wind Whistler noticed with some horror, was now taller than the other ponies. She didn’t want to be small, but she didn’t want to be enormous, either.

Masquerade was looking between her friends, visibly uneasy. “Maybe you should practice outside first?” she suggested to the Moochick. “On someone else?”

The Moochick was too startled to object. He and Fizzy headed back out to the yard, brows furrowed in concentration. From inside the nursery Wind Whistler could hear the popping and twinkling continue, punctuated with Fizzy’s coaching and their occasional yelps as his magic worked in unexpected ways.

Masquerade stretched her legs out and laid on the floor. Wind Whistler trotted up and stopped near her nose.

“Fizzy was trying to help,” Masquerade said quietly. Wind Whistler appreciated the gesture; when they’d spoken at a normal volume, it had felt like an earthquake. “So’s the Moochick.”

“They are always trying to help,” Wind Whistler agreed, though she had to bite back the rest of the sentence: _And it usually ends in disaster_.

“This could be your costume,” Masquerade joked. “Tiny Wind Whistler.”

Wind Whistler snorted.

“You’d probably win.”

“I would rather return to my usual size than win the costume competition.”

“They’ll figure it out,” Masquerade said. 

Just then, a herd of baby ponies raced back into the nursery, done with the scavenger hunt that had brought them all outside. They stopped short when they saw Masquerade lying on the floor.

“What’s going on?” asked Baby Ribbon.

Wind Whistler tried to duck behind Masquerade’s head — she didn’t wish to alarm the children — but it was no use. They were acutely attuned to anything small and adorable. Masquerade stood back up and the babies circled around tiny Wind Whistler, cooing. No one seemed remotely curious to learn how she’d ended up in this unenviable position.

“You’re even smaller than us!” Baby Cuddles said, delighted.

“Why are you wearing a cape?” Baby Lofty asked.

“You’re so _cute_ ,” squealed Baby Ribbon. “Do you want a piggyback ride?”

Absolute mortification. “No,” said Wind Whistler, startled by her own incredible patience. “No, I do not want a piggyback ride.”

“Are you _sure_?” the babies wheedled in near-unison. As this continued, Wind Whistler shut her eyes against the onslaught. Of course she adored the children, but she strongly preferred being able to escape them at her leisure.

After a few minutes, Masquerade stepped between the babies and Wind Whistler. “That’s enough,” she said, her voice cheerful, but with a sterner edge behind it than Masquerade usually displayed. The difference made the babies all pay attention. “Let’s give Wind Whistler some space. Why don’t you all get your costumes ready?”

“Ooh, _costumes_ ,” Baby Lofty cheered, and the others all followed her to the costume box.

“Let’s go check on the Moochick,” Masquerade suggested, keeping her voice low. Wind Whistler flew up and landed on her friend’s head, and together they went outside.

Out in the yard, they were immediately confronted with several disgruntled-looking Bushwoolies in a variety of unusual sizes. Spike had also joined in and was offering suggestions. The Moochick’s hat was tipped over, covering one eye.

“Oh, dear,” Wind Whistler said.

“How’s it going?” Masquerade asked uneasily.

“Um,” Fizzy said. “Good?”

That seemed patently false.

“Did the Bushwoolies say it was okay to experiment on them?” Masquerade asked.

A blue one piped up. “We said yeah,” and the others chorused, _yeah, yeah_. “If we can go back after.” Another one added, “Fizzy said we could have extra pie!”

Wind Whistler briefly closed her eyes. This was just what they needed on the morning of the Harvest Festival — for every resident of Ponyland to be a different size. They’d done all the baking and party decorating assuming normal-sized attendees.

“I don’t understand,” the Moochick grumbled, mostly to himself. “I’ve done this spell before, it’s simple!”

Habit had perked back up and was grabbing at the wand, making exaggerating sniffing gestures with his head. He looked back at Wind Whistler and Masquerade, then turned back to the wand and sniffed again.

“Can I see your wand for a second?” Masquerade asked.

The Moochick looked stunned. “Why my dear, only a _qualified wizard_ may examine a wand.”

“Uh huh.” Masquerade walked over to him, and Wind Whistler took off from her perch on Masquerade’s head. They both leaned in to examine the wand.

Masquerade wrinkled her nose. “Why does it smell funny?”

“Nonsense!”

Wind Whistler sniffed at it. “I’m afraid she’s correct, Mr. Moochick. Your wand does have…an unusual smell.”

“Hmph.

“Mr. Moochick,” Wind Whistler said, gently, “is it possible that your spells are going haywire because you need to clean your wand?”

“Well, I have no idea how anything could have--”

Fizzy’s voice popped in again. “Um, I might know how.”

Wind Whistler flew up high enough to see her. Sure enough, Fizzy’s eyes had dulled, and she was blushing furiously.

“Yes?” Wind Whistler asked.

“Well, it’s just that -- I was baking earlier, and you _know_ I get impatient sometimes.”

Indeed, Wind Whistler knew.

“And I saw the Moochick’s wand lying there, and well, I thought that maybe I could make it go a little faster with magic!” Her sparkle reappeared, and Wind Whistler swore she could see visions of pies and cakes reflected in her friend’s eyes.

The Moochick narrowed his eyes at Fizzy, then at his wand. He held it out and gave it a good sniff. “Ah, yes,” he said, nodding. “It smells of a savory pie.”

Masquerade sighed. “Let me take it.” With Wind Whistler back on her shoulder, she carried the wand between her teeth into the nursery and used a jug of water to rinse it off, then asked Baby Ribbon to find her a towel. The pair returned outside with the wand good as new.

As soon as she handed the wand back to the Moochick, he pointed it at Wind Whistler, but Masquerade jumped in front of her. “Why don’t you try it on something else first?” she suggested.

The Moochick pointed the wand at an apple that had previously been enlarged to half the size of the tree it had come from. A split second later, the apple returned to its normal size. The Moochick picked it up, examined it, then took a big bite. “Just fine,” he said through a mouthful of apple. “Who’s next?”

The Bushwoollies hopped into line, and the Moochick made quick work of returning them to their normal sizes. They all bounded off in the direction of Paradise Estate, presumably in search of the treats they’d been promised.

“One more to go,” the Moochick said, and finally pointed his wand at Wind Whistler. There was a brief _poof_ , and when she opened her eyes, the world was right again.

“There,” the Moochick said, pleased. “I told you I could do it.”

“We believed in you!” Fizzy said, and no one disagreed. After all, in the end, the Moochick usually _did_ solve whatever problems he’d created.

“Now,” he said, “about that cape…”

But Wind Whistler had beaten him to it, and the cape was already off. Working with Masquerade to fold it back up, she said, “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Moochick, but I think I may go without a costume this year.”

* * *

Hours later, with their bellies full of chocolate and, yes, some of Fizzy’s not-quite-magic pies, Masquerade and Wind Whistler stood next to the bonfire. Masquerade was still in her costume -- she’d dressed as a bumblebee, with the help of some paint that Wind Whistler wasn’t at all sure would come off. Megan, dressed as an astronaut (Wind Whistler still wasn’t _entirely_ clear what that was), was brushing out Masquerade’s tail, which was no small feat -- Heart Throb had used some sort of mysterious hair product to shape Masquerade’s tail into something resembling a stinger.

After the ponies finished telling their tale, Megan grinned. “I can’t believe I missed it!”

“I believe that’s for the best,” Wind Whistler said, nuzzling against her.

“Oh, I don’t know. It sounds like it was at least a _little_ bit fun. And all’s well that ends well.”

It wasn’t _fun_ , exactly. But…”I suppose it did give me a new perspective,” Wind Whistler admitted, a little grudgingly. “The world looks different when you’re so small.”

“Glad we could keep you grounded, Wind Whistler,” Masquerade teased.

“You still could have done the costume contest,” Megan said. “I could’ve helped once I got here.”

Wind Whistler shook her head emphatically. “I’d had enough excitement for one day.”

“Besides, she knew she couldn’t compete with me,” Masquerade said, lifting her chin so they could all admire her first-place medal. Along with the paint, she’d attached antennae to her head and decorated her wings. Wind Whistler had to admit, it was a very good costume. Still, it stung just a little.

It seemed her friends noticed.

“You don’t have to be good at everything, you know,” Megan said gently. She stuck the brush back in her pocket and turned to Wind Whistler, beginning to plait her mane the way she liked.

“I suppose not,” Wind Whistler admitted, thinking how pleasant it was to stand with friends around a roaring fire, at the end of a very long day.

“You’re good at most things,” Masquerade added. “Knowing stuff. Rescuing everyone.”

“I’d say you’re quite good at that yourself,” Wind Whistler said, nudging her. “You certainly saved the day today.”

Masquerade smiled, pleased. “I guess I did.”

“And Megan? Perhaps next year, _you_ can choose my costume.”

Megan and Masquerade both laughed. “I’d be happy to,” she said. “In fact…”

“Yes?”

“Astronauts need to fly, right?”

“Yes, that’s what you told us.”

Now it was Megan’s eyes twinkling. “Then how about you’re my spaceship?”

“Now _that_ would be a good costume,” Masquerade said, and Wind Whistler could already imagine a thousand ways it could go wrong -- and a thousand ways it could go perfectly right.

“Hop on,” Wind Whistler told Megan, and a moment later the three friends were soaring through the cool autumn air, watching the fire grow smaller and smaller, heading toward the stars.


End file.
